


ready to run

by theleavesoflorien



Category: Thronebreaker: The Witcher Tales (Video Game), Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: Canon Compliant, Canon-Typical Violence, Gascon-centric, M/M, Non-Graphic Violence, Post-Canon, Thronebreaker Spoilers
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-09
Updated: 2021-02-09
Packaged: 2021-03-15 13:48:36
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,003
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29315103
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/theleavesoflorien/pseuds/theleavesoflorien
Summary: (This story and summary containspoilersfor the ending of Thronebreaker: The Witcher Tales.)A dark shape obscured the silver glow of the moon shining through the window’s faded, distorted glass mosaic. It moved closer… closer… until the window croaked on its rusty hinges, giving a strangled squeak as though in warning.Gascon was ready.His hazel eyes gleamed eerily in the darkness as he leapt towards the opening with silent, graceful steps.Or: what really happened on the night when Gascon "grabbed his bow and quiver, saddled his favorite mount and disappeared without a trace" from his estate in Rivia?
Relationships: Gascon Brossard/OMC
Comments: 2
Kudos: 10
Collections: sharp blades gentle fingers





	ready to run

When Gascon woke up with a start, he immediately knew something was amiss. His body felt taut and alert in a way which—he’d learnt over the years—could only mean some danger was approaching, lurking in the underbrush like a coiling viper about to strike.

Gascon knew of danger, and he was always prepared for it.

His sharp senses honed in on the soft, barely audible sounds drifting in through the open window: fabric brushing against stone, fingers grasping onto cracks and ledges. _Someone’s climbing the wall of my fuckin’ mansion_ , he realised when he heard the telltale murmur of dry ivy leaves crunching under the sole of boots — a dead giveaway if Gascon had ever heard one.

His right eyebrow shot upwards, tickled by a few unruly curls falling messily on his forehead, and his mouth twisted into a half-smirk-half-grimace when he remembered he was wearing nothing but his favourite—quite see-through and well-adjusted—pair of cotton briefs. _Great_ , he thought gleefully. _I’m going to_ _put on a good show for the whoreson, give ‘em proper thanks for payin’ me a visit._

Gascon calculated he had a few more seconds before the intruder got to his window — ample time to gather the element of surprise firmly on his side. 

_One_. 

A sharp silver dagger whispered as it slid from underneath a plump white pillow. 

_Two_. 

Sure fingers grasped the handle expertly in one smooth, fluid motion betraying years of practise. 

_Three_. 

Two bare feet took a wide stance on the cold tiles of the floor.

_Four._

A dark shape obscured the silver glow of the moon shining through the window’s faded, distorted glass mosaic. It moved closer… closer… until the window croaked on its rusty hinges, giving a strangled squeak as though in warning. 

Gascon was ready.

His hazel eyes gleamed eerily in the darkness as he leapt towards the opening with silent, graceful steps. 

_I’m not going to let any old viper bite me._ I _’m the viper, for gods’ sak_ —

The intruder’s solid, nimble body unexpectedly crashed into his, punching a grunt out of Gascon’s lungs.

The viper and its prey—who was who, Gascon wasn’t so certain anymore—fell to the ground noiselessly. They rolled back and forth, pushed and pulled, until the dagger flew out of Gascon’s hand and he found himself pinned to the ground all too easily, icy stone burning the skin of his naked back like a brand.

He blinked.

The figure straddling his waist was cloaked in shadows, its outlines standing out against the milky light bathing the room. Gascon was rendered entirely powerless under its inexorable, seemingly effortless weight, and he had enough dignity in him to recognise the futility of struggling any further, despite every muscle in his tense body humming with the desire to fight back. 

_Huh. I’ve been defeated, haven’t I? Fuck me._

Gascon blinked again, beginning to sketch a desperate plan of escape in his mind — and that’s when a very well-known scent caught his attention, travelling on the light spring breeze drifting in through the window. Gascon’s eyes widened as he took another deep breath through his nose and the subtle notes of supple, worn-out leather, sweat and dew-covered moss invaded all his senses.

Oh, how well he knew that scent... 

Suddenly, his entire body recognised the familiarity of the so-called stranger pinning him down: the laboured breathing, the warm pressure of fingers encircling Gascon’s forearms, the strong thighs trapping him. Gascon grinned privately, with no one but the ambient darkness as witness, and licked his lips in anticipation. 

Needless to say, all thoughts of escaping had been thoroughly banished from his mind.

“My, my… I dare say circumstances were quite different last time you were towering over me and breathing heavily almost right into my ear, sweet’art!”

An inelegant snort resounded above him and a thumb stroked the delicate underside of his elbow. Gascon’s smile stretched until he could feel crinkles pulling at the corners of his eyes.

“Ha!” came the answer, as steady and soothing as Gascon remembered. “Pretty sure you’re enjoying this just as much as I am, though, aren’t you?”

“Hmm. Though I must admit I’d have appreciated a little warning. Would’ve been a right shame for me to harm you because of a sad little misunderstanding.”

“Harm _me_?”

“Why so skeptical? I’ll have you know I was just getting ready to pull my next clever move on you at the next available opportunity.”

“Oh? A move like _this_ , perhaps?” The dark shape loomed over Gascon and got closer… closer… until it obscured all moonlight, and Gascon felt a warm breath ghost over his mouth and silky strands of hair slide across his neck, shoulders and collarbones like a stream.

“Uh,” Gascon replied eloquently. “You, er...” 

No sooner had he registered the faint movement of a smile blooming against the corner of his mouth than the lips he’d been craving for over four months finally claimed his in a scorching kiss. The wet heath of a tongue slipping inside his mouth sent sparks down Gascon’s ice-cold back, drawing an involuntary whimper out of him. As soon as the hands holding him down shifted to tickle the goosebumps on his skin, Gascon’s own hands twitched and settled shakily on the forearms caging him in, as though in an aborted attempt to free himself. That _scent_ was all around him.

“You—” Gascon breathed, swallowing down a groan when teeth nipped playfully at his lip. “You _cheated_ , is what you did. Anticipated exactly what I was going to do when you came in through that window.”

“So what if I did? Just means I know you better than anyone. Nobody else would’ve been able to best you so easily, you see.”

“So damned sure of yourself… Tsk-tsk.” 

“Any reason I wouldn’t be? Hmm?”

“That depends.”

“On what?”

“On whether you can guess my next move, darlin’.”

The laugh that answered him was damp on Gascon’s lips. Hips abruptly ground down into his groin, and Gascon couldn’t tell whether the low moan that rumbled in his chest came from himself or from the body pressed tightly against his, so close he could feel rough fabric rub against his naked belly and torso.

_Hmm. Guessed my next move alright._

Gascon was just sneaking a deft hand along one of the thighs trapping him when the weight all over him lifted in an instant, as though it had never been there at all. Gascon was left staring at the long beams of moonlight painting the high, intricate ceiling of his bedroom, blinking and blinking again and trying to get his breathing under control.

_Fuck. Me._

He heard the soft padding of feet, followed by some shuffling.

Then, before he’d even had time to notice that his right arm was still raised in the air stupidly, the light above him shifted and he found himself buried under a blanket — _his_ blanket, one of the only luxuries he’d adopted wholeheartedly since he’d become the owner of his estate. 

“Coming?” 

“Humph. I can hear the self-satisfied grin in your voice, you know?” Gascon drawled, his lips twisting into a fond smile under the cover of the blanket.

He got to his feet—with more difficulty than he’d ever be willing to admit out loud—and, wincing a little at the soreness in his muscles, grabbed the blanket and draped it over his shoulders like a cape.

The cheerful complaint on the tip of his tongue immediately vanished when he took in the scene playing out on the other side of the room. 

Gweilge was lounging on Gascon’s bed comfortably, like he’d laid claim to it and made it his own. His thick waist-length hair—pulled back behind the head in a way which put on display his elongated, pointy ears—was gleaming blue in the moonlight, contrasting beautifully with the light brown of his skin.

The long, deep scar across his mouth twisted a little when he smiled at Gascon, reaching out a hand in invitation.

_Gods... Would be a damned fool if I needed to be asked twice._

Gascon quickly tiptoed over to the bed, a spring in his step, and promptly climbed atop Gweilge’s outstretched legs, biting his lip when they rubbed tantalisingly against the very thin fabric of his briefs.

For a moment, all he did was look at Gweilge — really _look_ at him. His almost-black eyes twinkled in the dim light, so crinkled they’d nearly disappeared entirely. Gascon scanned the familiar face for new injuries and was reassured to find nothing noticeable, apart from what appeared to be a minor cut—the sharp tip of a small blade, perhaps—on Gweilge’s left cheek. 

Gascon felt a strange urge to reach out and touch it. 

He didn’t.

“So… Care to explain why you sneaked into my mansion at night like a common bandit, only then to cruelly leave me hanging with what could’ve rapidly become a bad case of blue balls? I’m almost reminded of the first time we met — only that time you’d, eh, taken matters into your own hands and seen them through to the end, as one might say...”

Gweilge snorted again ( _for the second time tonight_ , Gascon noted with delight), and his hand settled on Gascon’s calf over the blanket covering it.

“This time, I promise I haven’t come to steal anything from the renowned rich owner of Wettenhall Estate,” he responded with a grin. “Although… I did come to steal _something_ , I suppose. As for the blue balls, I’m afraid they weren’t part of the plan, but I simply had no choice. You know just as well as I how the night would’ve ended if I hadn’t walked away from that... situation on the floor.” 

“Hmm, that I do. Would it have been so bad, though?”

“Not _bad_ , no. Never bad. Just a bit _distracting_ when I actually came here to talk to you.” 

“Oh, I see! Sounds kind of serious.”

“Because it is.”

At that, a tendril of uneasiness unfurled in Gascon’s belly and the smile on his face slowly froze into place. It took but mere seconds for the unpleasant feeling to fully take root and start growing and growing inside him.

_A serious talk... My, my — can’t say I’m fond of_ those _._

“Ha! You’re in luck, my dear, because it just so happens I _love_ serious talks. I say bring ‘em on!”

“Gas _—_ ”

“Tell me. What did you want to talk about?”

_He did take an awfully long time to come back this time. What if he wants to end our— whatever this_ thing _is we’ve got going on?_

Gascon’s left eye twitched almost imperceptibly as he waited for an explanation. He was about to continue spewing more nonsense when he felt a gentle squeeze on his calf and looked down to see Gweilge’s long fingers curled around it. He was still wearing the elegant ring of faded silver—with a tiny white pearl in its center—which Gascon had found in an old jewelry box left behind by the estate’s previous owners and given to Gweilge some months ago, before he’d had time to overthink the gesture. Gascon tried not to scowl petulantly at the object.

“Gas,” Gweilge tried again. His voice, ever low and calm, was overwhelmingly anchoring in the moment. “Actually, I, um… I came to steal _you_ away.”

Gascon’s gaze snapped up in surprise at that. He took in Gweilge’s earnest expression—the hypnotic blackness of his eyes, the whiteness of his two front teeth digging into his lower lip—and the stormy clouds that had been gathering inside his head seemed to clear as quickly as they’d appeared.

_He wants us to leave... together?_

Suddenly both thrilled and intrigued, Gascon bounced a little on Gweilge’s legs and exclaimed, probably too loudly in the quiet atmosphere of the room:

“Say _what_ , darlin’?!”

“As I said earlier, I don’t want to steal any of your stuff. Just you.”

“And how would that work exactly? Were you planning on tying me up, throwing me in an old, foul-smelling potato sack and hold me for ransom? I certainly wouldn’t object, though I’d rather you didn’t use ol’ innocent me to try extorting money from Meve or any other friends. You know poor Reynard would trip over his feet to make sure no harm came to me.”

“Oh, he’d deny it forcefully but he absolutely would. Not to worry, though — I was actually thinking about something more straightforward.”

“Like what?”

“Like: I ask you to come, and you come. Because you want to.”

“You do know it’s technically not stealing if the person being abducted _wants_ to be abducted, right?” Gascon pointed out, just for the pleasure of watching Gweilge roll his eyes good-naturedly. “Oh well, no matter — let’s say we run with your idea anyway. What would you be stealing me _for,_ exactly?”

Gweilge paused in consideration, his almost-black gaze searching Gascon’s face for something inscrutable. Gascon was reminded of the assessing, focused expression Gweilge bore whenever they did fight training together in the yard behind the mansion and Gweilge—sweaty and exhausted, but with eyes still as sharp as the elven blade he wielded—watched Gascon attentively, trying to anticipate his next course of action.

“In the last few months,” Gweilge finally began, “I haven’t been able to visit because I’ve been keeping a close watch on Radovid and the ugly, bloody business he’s been stirring. Turns out there’s an awful lot of work to be done all over the North — much more so than we both might’ve thought initially. I could take care of some of it myself, of course, as I always have — but in truth, I’d much rather you came with me.” 

Gascon felt himself grow very still and quiet as he absorbed Gweilge’s words.

He thought of injustice, hatred, innocent blood spilled in the streets; of days that had started growing restless and hollow despite the sweet appeal of luxury all around him, like a fine wine whose flavour seems to sour in the mouth after you’ve overindulged in its exhilarating novelty for too long. 

He thought of cold nights when his bed felt too big, too empty, and he craved the ghost of a long, deep scar under his lips and fingertips.

“You’re not saying anything,” Gweilge murmured after some time had passed, startling Gascon out of his reverie. It was then Gascon noted the subtle tenseness around Gweilge’s mouth and the single wrinkle that had appeared in the middle of his forehead.

_I’m not alone in being— scared, am I?_

Somehow, the thought breathed warm courage inside Gascon’s chest.

Before he could talk himself out of it, he extricated a hand from the makeshift cape enveloping him. Giving Gweilge time to react if he so wished, he slowly reached for a pointy ear and started rubbing it gently—very gently—with a careful thumb, right under the three small looped earrings pierced into its side. 

Gascon was gratified when Gweilge’s eyes instantly fluttered closed at the attention. He’d always been ever so responsive to Gascon touching and biting his ears when they were both getting lost in each other’s bodies.

“I’d love to.” _There’s nothing I’d rather do._ “Just not entirely certain you _quite_ know what you’re getting into here. I’ve received reports—exaggerated, no doubt—claiming that I’m ‘insufferable’ in close quarters; and while I’m sure those unjust reports are due to others simply not appreciating my superior brand of humour, I can’t promise you won’t want to throttle me in my sleep after travelling alone with me for a while.”

“Hmm,” Gweilge commented, his eyes still closed and a content grin playing on his lips. “And what if the joy of getting to see the comeback of your ridiculous feathered hat makes up for all that?” 

“I beg your pardon?! You love my hat, I know you do! Think you might be confusing _ridiculous_ with _ravishing_ , my dear.”

“You know what I find _ravishing_?” Gweilge asked, his gaze intense beneath long, dark eyelashes as he finally looked up at Gascon. “Your lovely, lovely curls.” He raised a hand to pull lightly at a curl on Gascon’s forehead and watched it spring back into place, and Gascon found himself swallowing around a suddenly dry throat at the hungry look on his face.

“Such a shame they’re always hidden underneath some hat or other,” Gweilge continued. “But _I_ get to see and touch them all the time.”

“Only you.”

“Yeah?” 

“Yeah.”

“Well, we’ve got a few hours left before dawn. What do you say we try again what we did last time, when I pulled your hair just right and you beg—”

“Oh-ho — don’t even finish that sentence, darlin’!” Gascon exclaimed with a wide grin, shifting his weight and crawling over Gweilge’s legs until the blanket had pooled around his legs and he was hovering—naked but for a flimsy pair of cotton briefs—over his lover.

He bent down to nose delicately at Gweilge’s jaw, and a familiar warmth ran down his spine when he heard a quiet giggle in response. 

“Show me instead.”

* * *

When Gascon grabbed his bow and quiver, saddled his favourite mount and disappeared without a trace, he wasn’t alone.

Knickers was trailing behind, his fluffy tail wagging excitedly as though sensing he was about to embark on a new adventure with the two people he liked best: his beloved master, and the kind, patient man who played games with him and gave him juicy apples to snack on ever time he came to visit.

And Gweilge— Gweilge was sat on Gascon’s young grey mare Mandy a few meters ahead, his silhouette beautiful and striking against the soft lavender blush spread over the starry sky. 

He turned to look at Gascon, his long hair—braided somewhat clumsily by Gascon an hour or two ago—brushing his saddle with the movement. The smile he sent over his shoulder was private, special — only meant for the two of them. 

“Ready?”

“Ready.”

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading! ♡
> 
> If anyone's interested in what Gweilge looks like, my faceclaim for him is [Booboo Stewart](https://i.imgur.com/GgfyJ2j.jpg). Also, fun fact: his name comes from Welsh _gweilgi_ ("sea, torrent").
> 
> You're more than welcome to hmu @[theleavesoflorien](http://theleavesoflorien.tumblr.com) to chat about this story, Thronebreaker or anything else really! ♡


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